


The Raid League

by JustNeededAUsername



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Friendship, Gen, Modern Retelling, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25880356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustNeededAUsername/pseuds/JustNeededAUsername
Summary: Following series 4, our Baker Street Boys' adventures continue. As usual, a quiet day in 221B is interupted by a desperate client/could-be-murderer on the run from the police.This is my attempt to mix and match some of the original short stories and bring them into the universe of Sherlock.
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my third fanfiction. It has been awhile - 2 years! - and God have I missed feeling inspired. And what better story to be inspired by than the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the modernised version by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
> 
> This is my attempt to mix and match some of the original short stories and bring them into the universe of Sherlock. However, I have not re-read the original stories but instead watched the BBC Grenada/Jeremy Brett series to update my memory. I hope that it will do well enough, since I am modernising the stories anyway.
> 
> The story takes place a couple of years after season 4. The main focus is the plot of the crime, so I am feeling a lack of the character exploration that the show does so well, but I am still quite happy with how it turned out.
> 
> I am neither English, nor a doctor, nor a police offer, nor a consulting detective, and I have only been in London as a tourist, so scientific and geographical errors will most likely occur, so if you discover any, I hope that you will just have a laugh and continue reading (However, the geographical errors can partially be blamed on Auntie Google, as I am putting a lot of faith in what she tells me).
> 
> Please enjoy :)
> 
> P.S. of course I do not own Sherlock. If I did, we would not be waiting this damn long for a fifth season!

John awoke to the sound of laughter from the kitchen. He cracked an eye open; 07:17. Not exactly early, so he shouldn't feel annoyed by the normally pleasant sound. Unless he considered the fact that he had not slept for much more than three hours. And right now, he considered that very much.

But despite his deepfelt wish to sleep for preferably four or five more hours, a familiar clenching feeling quickly swept over him, and with a displeased grunt, he threw the duvet to the side and got out of bed.

The floor was nice and cold, and a curtain-dimmed sun fought its way into the room, teasing a bright and sunny morning waiting outside.

He ignored the fact that he needed a shower, not having bothered to get one when he got home at four in the morning, and just got dressed and quickly made his way to the kitchen.

"Daddy!" One word erased his sleepiness, weariness and concerns for his appearances, the amazing affection of a parent for his offspring kicking in, pushing all other needs and thoughts away.

"Good morning, sweetheart," he answered with a smile, picking up his daughter and placing a kiss on her cheek.

"Morning John. Hungry?"

"Yes, please," John smiled thankfully at the young man in the kitchen, noticing for the first time that he was quite hungry. It was not unusual after having been running through London for most of the night.

The young man slid a plate with toast and jam on the table, enough for both John and Rosie, before making more for himself. He had clearly opted to give John what was meant to be his own breakfast instead of making John wait for a new batch of toast. Damn saint.

John sat down with Rosie on his knee, both starting to eat and Rosie excitedly telling about an adventure that she and a friend had been on the day before at the part, while John had been out. He forcibly pushed away the clenching feeling again.

Bringing a new plate of breakfast, they were soon joined by Thomas.

It was quite a different arrangement from the last time John had shared a living space with another man. Then again, young Thomas didn't have much to live up to. As long as he helped doing the shopping, keeping the place clean and didn't keep unmarked human body parts in the fridge, he was pretty much a dream to live with.

Truth be told, Thomas had more than lived up to the expectations of a tenant. He did most of the shopping, most of the cleaning, he often cooked, and he adored Rosie - And he still happily paid rent.

John had tried to get along by himself for some time, after Mary, but money had been tight. Not wishing to leave the house - Maybe not yet being able to since, despite the heart-wrenching memories, this was the home that she had made for them - he had decided to rent out the spare room.

Sherlock had not taken lightly to the idea, despite seeing the practical aspects of the decision. He had thrown quite a tantrum, going on about the dangers of letting a stranger into your home ( _Honestly John, you are not the best judge of character - You have already let two sociopaths into your life, do you really need another?_ ). John had just let him ramble, knowing that underneath the harsh words was only poorly concealed concern. He was fairly sure that Sherlock secretly would have preferred that John had moved back into Baker Street, but they both knew that 221B was no place for a child to grow up. The fact that John was still involved with Sherlock and his cases was enough of a risk. A risk that he stubbornly ignored.

Sherlock had instead insisted on participating in the interviews of potential tenants. It proved to be quite practical and efficient… in a very cringeworthy way.

_No. 2: "I believe we need to clarify one thing; When you say "I do not party very often", you mean no less than every Friday and Saturday, which by normal definition would probably be better phrased as "I party every weekend". Also, you should consider better personal hygiene. Next time you try to tell such a frivolous lie, make sure to properly wash away the stamps on your wrists from the establishments you frequent. I can spot at least four, where one is clearly more than a week old. Deodorant really is no substitute for a real shower, even one as 'fragrant' as yours."_

_No. 3: "Too stupid."_

_No. 8: "You clearly come from money, single child, never worked a day in your life, just trying to proof your parents wrong when they say that you cannot take care of yourself if you move away from home. They are right. John already has a child, and an impossibly unhelpful friend, he does not need an overgrown teenager as well."_

_No. 10: "Too loud."_

_No. 13: "I have to recommend that we stop interviewing young female candidates, as you clearly do not listen to the gibberish coming out of their mouths, being too distracted by their exteriors. Oh, don't be like that John, you know perfectly well that I am right!"_

_No. 16: "You're blabbering - We already have one acquaintance for that kind of waste of time."_

_No. 18: Opens door, closes it immediately; "Absolutely not, I refuse it!"_

Lastly - Finally! - Thomas had made the cut, and John had to admit to being quite happy with the choice.

_No. 21: "You are committed academically, slightly above average intelligence - so hopefully you will not be too annoying to have around -, second out of four children - so you are familiar with smaller siblings and should be able to handle Rosie -, you don't smoke but I won't hold that against you, and you are a medical student, which can always come in handy. If you at any point can sneak some chemicals or body parts from your classes, please do, anything can be of interest."_

Sherlock had, of course, been absolutely right about the young man. He was driven, organised, clever and very caring. John had become somewhat of a mentor to Thomas and had even provided him an apprenticeship for his professional practice in the clinic, where he had proven to be just as committed as Sherlock had deduced.

"Anything exiting happening in the clinic yesterday?" John requested, not having been performing his own medical duties yesterday due to the case.

Thomas couldn't help laughing when he said; "Well, this oddball came in and tried to sell me cheap porn DVDs as thanks for the examination!" He of course whispered the 'porn' bit, in order for Rosie not to catch on to the word - considerate as always.

John burst into laughter as well, remembering the man 'fondly'. He had not had the 'pleasure' of seeing the man again but was pleased that he hadn't chased him completely away from the clinic. Not his brightest moment, but to be fair, he could easily have been right about it being Sherlock in disguise.

"Did you catch any criminals last night?" Thomas asked.

Another quality that John appreciated; Thomas was a fan of his blog. This also meant that the man knew about Sherlock's behaviour and handled it better than most. John even suspected that the detective liked Thomas in his own way, or at least appreciating him for all the help he was to John.

"Yes. Yes, we did," John looked away, the pang of guilt hitting him before he continued; "Actually, I promised Lestrade to come in today and give my statement, along with Sherlock. Would you mind, er..."

"No problem. I already told Rosie that I would be taking her to kindergarten. I kinda expected you to sleep for a bit longer, considering how late you got in," Thomas just send him an understanding smile.

"Are you sure?" John already knew the answer. God, the kid really was a bloody saint.

Rosie seemed thrilled to spend time with Thomas. Sherlock had definitely been right in deducing that the man had experience with handling smaller children. However, John still felt guilty for leaving his daughter so often. Like yesterday, where he had left and spend most of both the day and night hunting down a murderer, and now he barely spent an hour with her before leaving again to follow up on the case. To be honest, he was unlikely to return until afternoon. But maybe he would be able to pick her up. Maybe.

He had learned to live with the guilt in the same way as he had learned to accept that he could not leave his life with Sherlock behind. He had accepted his addiction to the adventures as much as the benefits, costs and risks associated with it.

He had also promised Mary that he would take good care of Rosie. Of course, he would. So, he had made it clear that when he was with Rosie, he would be there fully. Never working a case or taking his work home with him. He only wrote his blog when Rosie was asleep or not home. They only visited Sherlock when there were no ongoing cases. Which also, surprisingly, proved a good distraction for the detective.

He would be there for Rosie as much as possible, skipping sleep and showers if necessary, every second counting.

But for John, being there meant to regularly get the adrenaline in and out of his system. He was a father and a doctor, but also a soldier. And neither the father nor the doctor could function, if the soldier couldn't.

So, it was with both guilt and acceptance that he texted Sherlock that he would be going to the Yard in half an hour.


	2. Chapter 2

It was no surprise that he didn't receive an answer from Sherlock and had to give his statement alone. He therefore went to Baker Street after having satisfied every question that the Yard could come up with regarding last night's catch. Though complaining over Sherlock's lack of showing, the sergeant of the case seemed secretly happy with only having to deal with the much more cooperative doctor.

Normally, John would have had to go to work, but luckily Sarah had learned to accept his quickly switching working hours. It was, after all, for a good cause. John would send a text when coming home late from a case, and Sarah would usually manage without him or with him coming in late. John tried to repay her adaptability by taking some of the shifts that nobody else wanted or say yes as often as possible when she asked for emergency assistance due to, mostly, flu epidemics, rendering more patients, and also medical personnel, ill.

Today, the clinic could manage without him, so after giving his statement, John went to 221B. He locked himself in the front door as usual, still having the key to the front door and not needing one for the ever-open door upstairs. The apartment had barely changed over the years, still an archive of cases and peculiarities filed in a system that only a self-proclaimed sociopath could decipher. The few changes to the living room was mostly a result of Rosie; A toy left in a corner, another in the nook of the couch, a blanket and pillow saved for when the little girl needed to rest during her longer visits to Sherlock's.

John found Sherlock by his desk scowling at his laptop, probably trying to will it to present him with a case worthy of his genius. He seemed to be dressed in last night's clothes except having replaced his jacket with his robe.

"They missed you down at the yard," John greeted.

"Doubt it," Sherlock briefly glanced to his friend but easily caught all the signs of fatigue; bags under the eyes, lack of the military stance - _low energy, lack of sleep_ , hair slightly greasy from last night's running, only combed with his fingers - _not freshly showered, so he had prioritised to spent time with Rosie this morning_ , head hanging slightly - _guilt of being here instead of with his daughter_ , jumper slightly askew - _not caring about appearance, again prioritising his daughter and the case of last night over his appearances_. But he also caught; Not keeping eye contact for long but not in an avoiding manner, in a searching manner - _Looking for signs of a new case, wanting one, but feeling guilty for wanting one_.

Sherlock was concerned for the doctor's lack of self-maintenance, trying to joggle his opposing life directions, and therefore chose to express it by snarling; "You should go home and sleep. You will be of no use to me if your reflexes and already limited cognitive abilities are further slowed by lack of rest."

John of course saw through it, only responding; "And when was the last time you ate? You will be of no use to me if you faint on the next case."

Sherlock smirked in answer. The familiar banter, and the clear sign that despite the late night, neither of them were unable to handle a new case this very moment. More likely, they both already craved another thrill.

Instead of leaving, John sat down in his chair - Yes, still his chair - and read the newspaper, letting the companionable silence stretch between them. He still worried about Sherlock when there was no case, though the detective had become increasingly better at handling it, often with visits from John and Rosie or visiting them. However, there was still no doubt that the level of stimuli that his brain needed made his addictive impulses worse than normally, and being a doctor, John could not help but to keep his friend under supervision in times like these. The case last night was far from enough to keep Sherlock's mind occupied for today; A simple murder, but the murderer, being a long-time delivery man and thus very familiar with every recess of London, creatively escaped the police, thus providing a somewhat entertaining day and night for the detective, manoeuvring around the city.

There was however a limit to how much time John could dedicate to Sherlock, so after a couple of hours, he was about to put down the book that had replaced the newspaper and go pick up Rosie early, when the doorbell rang. Not only rang, but was kept down, until Mrs. Hudson hurriedly answered the door.

John and Sherlock locked eyes, neither caring to conceal their excitement; "Client!"

Sherlock quickly rose and in long strides went to his bedroom to discard of his rope and replace it with a jacket. Before he could return, their new client had already run up the stairs and stood in the middle of the living room, breathing heavily.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Help, please," He forced out.

John rose from his seat to guide the man to the mandatory client chair, "He will be right here. Please, have a seat. Deep breaths."

The man was probably in his mid to late twenties - he had a slightly boyish look, making it difficult to guess - very slim and nicely dressed in shiny shoes, dark jeans, a t-shirt and a jacket. The typical look of a modern, young professional. Only, he was covered in light sweat, also marking his otherwise clean t-shirt.

Sherlock joined them, quickly skimming over the new face under the pretence of an introduction; "Sherlock Holmes. What brings you here, Mr…? "

"Please, please I need your help. The police are coming for me," The man still found it difficult to get the words out, though it seemed to be more driven by panic than lack of breath.

"Interesting," Sherlock noted, dignifying the man with a second glance, "Especially since you do not seem the type to get into trouble with the authorities. A respectable engineer, most likely project engineer. Efficient as well. Fan of your blog, John, so you can probably get a new case to romanticise, of course giving that it is interesting enough for me to take, though he surely has made an interesting opening, don't you think? Avid runner. I do not yet, however, know whether to judge you to be smart or stupid."

Despite the man's dishevelled demeanour, he smiled enthusiastically; "Oh, you really are good."

Sherlock smiled stiffly at the compliment and turned an exhausted look to John; "See, fan of your blog."

'Blog' was definitely not meant as a compliment. Sherlock had grown quite tired with the familiarity people allowed themselves with him, just because John was so stuck on the idea of humanising Sherlock at every opportunity he had.

"Care to elaborate, Sherlock?" John asked, not caring to figure out Sherlock's deductions himself, especially with a still very desperate looking client in front of them. Might as well get it over with, so Sherlock could get to the point of hopefully helping the man. Plus, showing off his abilities was a small fix for his brain, which was always welcome as a way of occupying it, if only for mere minutes.

John walked into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water for their client. For once, water seemed more ideal than tea, considering the running the man had done.

Sherlock grinned, before starting his well-known ranting; "Spatulate shaped fingertips indicate extensive writing on a keyboard, thus office work. All ten fingers as well, so you must be efficient. However, you also have a small blue stripe by your temple, indicating that you keep a pen behind your ear, quite often since it has not been washed away by a recent shower, and you clearly keep clean and groomed. Pen-striped temples are mainly found in people who often draws; designers, architects, engineers. Why not a designer? Works more often on paper or alternatively tablets than computers plus no small punctures in your hands from stray needles or other tools, so no practical work. Why not architect? Well they usually dress more artistically than jeans and a T-shirt with what I can only assume to be a pop-cultural statement written with the elements of the Periodic Table - Probably funny to whoever understands the reference. Of course, the T-shirt also points to a scientific nature. Hence, engineer. As mentioned, no signs of practical work, thus project engineer. But still, you wear a nicely kept, medium priced jacket and likewise with your shoes, thus you are a professional and would be liked to be perceived as such. Thus, respectable. I would even say you own your own company, since now that you have regained your breath, you carry yourself quite presentably."

The young man grinned enthusiastically; "That is truly remarkable! I assume you know I read Doctor Watson's blog, since I am here, but what about the running and whether I was smart or... you know, stupid."

John smiled at the man's excitement when he handed him the glass of water. But then again, Sherlock had not said anything particularly negative about the young man. Still, it occurred more and more often that people reacted in some positive manner to Sherlock's deductions, given his popularity in the media. Even people who didn't like him could not help but to be impressed by his 'tricks'. John was aware that this, ironically, annoyed Sherlock immensely, but John could not help but to be happy that people appreciated his friend's abilities.

"You clearly ran to get here, but your breathing and pulse has quickly normalised, plus you have the slim build of a runner, of course. Regarding your level of intellect, you have chosen to come see me instead of the police. Whether that was smart or stupid will depend on how interesting your case turns out to be."

The man smiled appreciatively.

Sherlock chose to continue; "Now, when you said that the police is 'coming for you', please say that you meant it literally? You are on the run from the police?"

The smiled disappeared and the man nodded solemnly; "Most likely, yes."

John frowned, not sure if it was a good idea to have a potential fugitive - and thus criminal - in the house without at least informing Lestrade. But God, it had the makings to become an interesting case and settled on asking; "Most likely?"

"I started running, then jumped on the first tube I came across. I don't know if they followed me. On the tube, I started realising my situation - God, I've been so stupid - and then I thought of you, Mr. Holmes, and then I got off the tube and ran here. Luckily, I had jumped on the Jubilee, taking me more or less straight here."

John looked to Sherlock. He was clearly not worried about the man and whatever crime he might be running from. He was of course also very keen on having the potential criminal to himself before the Yard could show up and ruin the investigation with proper police procedures.

John picked up his small notebook; "Right then. Should we start with the beginning? Your name, perhaps?"


	3. Chapter 3

"My name is Jack Wilson. As you correctly said, Mr. Holmes, I am a project engineer. I design building installations, electricals, ventilation, the like. I have my own little company in Greenwich. Not much, but I get by. I pride myself at being quite good in my field and having a wide range of services, unlike some of my competitors," The man, Mr. Wilson, took a sip of water before continuing, "About a month, I was contacted by a Mr. Duncan Ross. He had a building that he wanted me to perform some structural calculations for, in preparation for him establishing a small data centre. He told me that it was to be kept a secret. Nothing abnormal about that, most data centres are kept secret to some degree, especially during the building period. You know, to keep the security measures that are established unknown to-"

"Yes, yes, move along, _please,_ " Sherlock interrupted.

"Right, er, well, the first slightly abnormal thing about this job was the payment. It was… well-above normal market rate. I thought it a bit strange, but even when I tried to inform Mr. Ross of my normal hourly rates, he brushed me aside, and said that he had a budget and as long as I kept within the maximum price, he did not care. Furthermore, he did have some unusual requests, which the additional payment should help cover the costs of," Mr. Wilson took another sip of water.

"Unusual requests?" John prompted.

"Firstly, he wanted me to buy a new laptop, to be used only for this work. It had to be completely clean of any other of my work and have the highest security on the market."

"Sounds expensive?" John asked.

Sherlock grumbled at the irrelevance of the question - The answer was obvious - but allowed the inquiry to continue.

"Yes, quite. I told Mr. Ross that my current computer was very safe and that I take the security of my clients' projects very seriously, but he wouldn't budge. And, well, the money was good, and more than covered both my time estimate for the project and the cost of the computer in question, so no harm done," Mr. Wilson shrugged.

"You said 'requests', plural. What else?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Again, due to the high security level of the project, I was only allowed to work at the actual site of the data centre and only between 12 PM and 14 PM. He claimed that other contractors would be working on site before and after, and he did not want any of us there at the same time. The timing fitted me quite well, considering that I could work from home in the morning, go for an early lunch and then straight to the data centre, but it complicated the work a bit."

"Complicated it how?" John asked.

"Disrupted work," Sherlock mumbled from behind his hands, clasped in front of his face, eyes closed.

"Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I barely got my systems running and the calculations going before having to close down again," Mr. Wilson sighed frustratedly, clearly not enjoying this way of working, before shaking his head and continuing; "But, you know, the client gets what he pays for, so if he wanted his project to be run this way at the expense of the work being prolonged, then who am I to argue?"

"Did you ever inform Mr. Ross that you worked from home?" Sherlock asked, casting a sharp glance at Mr. Wilson, but not otherwise moving.

Mr. Wilson thought for a moment; "Probably. I don't remember, but we talked a bit while I was working, so I might have mentioned it."

John looked inquiring at Sherlock, but Sherlock just leaned deeper into his chair and closed his eyes again before prompting; "So you took the job. Where was it?"

"In the industrial area by Greenwich Pier. Which brings me to the last thing before getting to my predicament-"

"Finally…" Sherlock drawled behind his hands.

"-And that is that Mr. Ross insisted that I kept the computer for this particular project in a safe in his office, so I could not bring the work home and continue or in any way optimise my processes."

"That Mr. Ross sounds pretty paranoid," John couldn't help noting out loud, a bit disbelievingly.

"Yes, but I have met quite a few eccentrics, even in my short career, so I didn't think too much of it."

"And the money was good," John smiled knowingly.

Mr. Wilson didn't take offense but just nodded with a small stiff smile Apparently, the money did not look as good anymore.

"How were you paid?" Sherlock requested.

"Oh, another oddity, actually. I was paid weekly by hours rendered, and I was paid by check. Quite unusual, but as long as the payments went through, who were I to complain?"

"Indeed… So, please tell us what exactly happened with this well-paid job of yours," Sherlock said with a disagreeable tone, not approving of payment being a driver for the work, before sending Mr. Wilson a look clearly signalling 'Get on with it'.

"On my first day, I met Mr. Ross at the appointed address…"

"Was it only you and Mr. Ross?" Sherlock interfered.

"Yes. I never met anyone else, not even any of the other contractors coming to or from the place."

"When was your first day?"

"Thursday, two weeks ago."

"So, this has been going on for what? 12 workdays? From Thursday two weeks ago until today, Monday?" John clarified.

"The work would normally take about a week, but due to these circumstances, it has taken me almost two, so far," Apparently Mr. Wilson took the question as an attack to his abilities.

Sherlock closed his eyes, satisfied with the answer.

Mr. Wilson continued though a bit offended at first; "Mr. Ross gave me a working desk, and I got to work, calculating the dimensions of the ventilations systems, fire systems, etcetera, given the dimensions of the data cabinets. The work itself was relatively simple, but under the conditions and often lack of information from Mr. Ross due to 'security reasons', the work took longer than normally. I was almost done, though, when…"

"When?" Sherlock pushed, when Mr. Wilson seemed to become lost in thought.

"This morning, I worked from home in the morning and then went to the data centre. However, when I got there, the place was closed. I tried calling Mr. Ross, but it said the number was out of service. I tried walking around the building to look through the windows, but they were tinted, so I couldn't see through them. I tried the door again, tried calling again, but no answer. I considered asking the neighbouring companies, but I've never talked to anyone there, so I didn't know who to contact. In the end, all I could do was to go back to my office," For the first time during their conversation, Mr. Wilson looked down to his hands and looked uncomfortable with telling this story, his face losing colour and his breathing becoming slightly superficial.

John put his notebook aside and went to put a hand on the man's shoulder; "In your own time. Please tell us what happened, so we can help you."

John send Sherlock a look to make sure that his impatient friend didn't push Mr. Wilson unnecessarily, but Sherlock only looked worriedly at the man, clearly acknowledging that this man would not react like this lightly. He had just told a story indicating that he had most likely been fooled, caught up in some kind of fraud, without being particularly emotional about the fact, so something worse must have happened afterwards.

"I walked into my office building. But outside my office was two police officers and a crying woman - Miss Parker from an accounting company down the hall - and there was blood at my doorstep, and I could just glance inside…" Mr. Wilson lowered his head and frantically started wiping away stray tears, "I'm sorry. I didn't even know him very well, but he was always so nice."

"It's perfectly fine." John assured him, giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

This was one of the areas, where the experiences of the last decade had changed Sherlock. Some would probably claim for the better, despite the hard-learned lessons. He had a new level of empathy for the clients who broke down during their tales. It was probably not visible for others, as people would normally expect this kind of respect in situations such as this, but to John, the difference was night and day. Personally, despite how trying Sherlock could be, John would had preferred for Sherlock to be none the wiser in this regard.

"You said you knew him?" Sherlock asked, carefully prompting Mr. Wilson to continue, once he regained his composure.

"It was Burt. He was a security guard for the security company employed by the building. They do rounds of the building in the evening, to check if everything is alright, and then have a guard on call during night, in case of any alarms."

"What did the police say?" John asked.

"I'm ashamed to say that I don't know. Miss Parker pointed at me and screamed 'There he is! It's him!'. I don't know… I guess I panicked when they all stared at me. And I ran. I don't know how I got away…" Mr. Wilson ran his hands down his face, "And then, suddenly, the last couple of weeks dawned on me, and I realised something was very wrong. This can't be a coincidence. I mean, Mr. Ross just happening to disappear the same day that a man is found… dead… on my doorstep? I was afraid to return to the police, not thinking they would believe me, especially after running… Oh God, this is such a mess…"

A moment passed while Mr. Wilson composed himself.

"Well, Mr. Wilson," Sherlock stated slowly, not able to hide a small grin blooming on his face, earning the young man's attention; "At least we can establish that you are clever, connecting these points. And more importantly; Clever for bringing this sweet little case to me."


	4. Chapter 4

"So, you will help me, Mr. Holmes? I will pay you of course," Mr. Wilson urged desperately.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair; "I will take your case. Whether that will help you or not depends on what I find. No matter what, you ran from the police, which in itself is illegal and incriminating, however if you are willing to accompany us to the crime scene, I will speak your case."

"Yes, absolutely! Thank you!" Mr. Wilson breathed deeply in relief.

Sherlock smirked and went for his coat; "Then come along! John!"

Before John had gotten his coat and guided the still slightly distressed Mr. Wilson up his chair and down to the pavement in front of 221B, Sherlock had already hailed a cab, and was eagerly berating them to hurry.

During the ride, Mr. Wilson tried to lighten the mood with conversation, but Sherlock quickly shut him down on each account, mainly with his attitude alone. John was used to this, and stayed quiet, only offering apologetic smiles whenever Mr. Wilson looked at him for an answer to Sherlock's rejections. The detective was clearly already unwrapping the puzzle and assembling the outline of the picture.

They finally arrived - luckily there was not much traffic in the middle of the day - and Sherlock swooped out of the cab, leaving John to pay, and Mr. Wilson unsure of whether to follow the detective or stay with John. Apparently, Sherlock's attitude in the cab made it more appealing to stay close to John.

They were met by the familiar sight of police cars and the red-and-white ribbon keeping unauthorised people away from the scene. Luckily, they were also met by a familiar face.

"I am appalled by the physical state of our police force, unable to catch up with a suspect mere feet from them," Sherlock greeted the DI.

Lestrade didn't dignify the statement with an answer, but his facial expression clearly related that his officers had, to put it mildly, disappointed him and seeing Sherlock bring in their suspect only made the embarrassment that much worse. He was about to jump at Mr. Wilson when he got out of the cab, but Sherlock held up a hand, and instead they just watched as John and Mr. Wilson walked up to them.

Mr. Wilson visibly straightened his back; "Mr. Officer, I am here to turn myself in. I apologise for running earlier."

Lestrade's jaw dropped for a moment, clearly not used to criminals turning themselves in and definitely not apologising for getting away. He quickly collected himself and called over an officer to perform the official arrest.

"Where did you find him? How did you even know he was a fugitive?" Lestrade asked, clearly frustrated to be overtaken by Sherlock on something so simple. He knew that the detective was clever, but he was not psychic… right?

"Mr. Wilson is my latest client. Quite an interesting case that he presented. Can we have a look at the crime scene before the Yard ruins it further?" Despite the almost-polite request, Sherlock did not wait for an answer, but started walking towards the industrial building.

Lestrade looked exhaustedly to John and was clearly grateful that John still respected his authority of the crime scene and waited for his approval before entering. Even though they had known each other for about ten years and were close mates, John always kept it professional at crime scenes - At least to the degree that Sherlock made it possible. Lestrade waved his hand in a 'Go on then, let's get it over with' manner, and John followed Lestrade inside.

It was a typical red brick building, probably once used for storage of goods being shipped to and from the area. However, the insides were modernised, white and steel, and now split into smaller areas, among others housing something sounding like software development companies and a legal company, judging by the names by the entrance door.

Lestrade guided them down a corridor at ground level, with Sherlock bouncing from one side to the other, taking in the space in his special way - the way that John had often compared to that of a bloodhound - but never giving anything away. One side of the corridor was lined with tinted glass. The other was all white with doors with varying distances between them leading to different companies, all having their name or logo on their entrance door.

By the end of the corridor, at the second to last door besides a backdoor at the very end, they were met with what looked like two officers and a handful of civilians, giving their statements. Behind the group of people, the floor around the door leading to what must be Mr. Wilson's office was covered in a crimson stripe, showing that someone had been dragged from the hall into the office, clearly in a very wounded state judging by the amount of blood.

One of the officers were none other than Sally Donovan. Though she and Sherlock would never work together amicably, she did have a new level of respect for him after he came back from the dead - or to be more precise, the relief of him returning from the dead after the role she played in his pretend suicide which had made her more careful of her behaviour around him. Though Sherlock had forgiven her, or never really blamed her un the first place, she clearly was still trying to repent by acting civilly around him.

"You brought _him_ on the case?" Her disappointment was obvious, still having some professional pride that was attacked whenever Sherlock came around, especially this early in the investigation.

"He just showed up with our suspect. You know, the one you lost earlier," Lestrade might as well have said; 'Since you can't even handle the basics, I had to bring in the professionals'. No need to mention that he had not actually called Sherlock in, but had been just as triumphed by him as Donovan was now.

Donovan squared her shoulders to hide her shame and instead looked Sherlock in the eye, clearly daring him to question her abilities, despite having lost a suspect; "And what, he told you that he was innocent, and you believed him?"

Sherlock smirked at the situation, clearly indulging; "Please, don't let me interrupt your investigation, Sergeant Donovan. As you were."

Sherlock stood back, his hands innocently behind his back, watching the sergeant expectantly. Donovan was seething, Sherlock's false politeness doing nothing to sooth the sergeant, but she apparently decided to proof her worth in front of her superior and the pain-in-the-arse detective. She regained some composure and turned back to the witness she had been interviewing and almost politely bit out; "Please, continue Miss Parker."

Miss Parker looked between the Sergeant and the detective, nervously clenching and unclenching her hands in front of her. She had obviously cried, her eyes still slightly red and her make-up smeared; "Well, there is not much else to tell…"

"Let me guess; Miss Parker came to work, as normally. At some point she went out for a smoke, was going to take the backdoor at the end at the corridor, thus coming by Mr. Wilsons office, noticing the blood on the floor, opened the door, found the body, started crying, and called the police?" Despite Sherlock keeping a somewhat friendly tone, his smile was stiff and impatient. The pointed look he shot at Miss Parker made the woman nod her head and start crying again, confirming the rough description of her actions.

Donovan's eyes shot daggers at Sherlock.

"And everyone just assumed that Mr. Wilson did it?" Sherlock asked, now condescendingly.

"Well, he is the only one with an office in this end of the corridor, and he has very good security systems, and we had heard noise in there before, and he wasn't here this morning, I thought he might be on the run, I mean, he always seemed nice, but you never know, and…" Miss Parker ended her rambling in more tears.

"He is, at the very least, a person of interest," Donovan as good as snarled, but then suddenly exchanged her wrath with a smile, raising her chin; "And, there are other aspects of this case that point to Mr. Wilson and his line of work."

Sherlock answered by narrowing his eyes at the sergeant, clearly not liking that she might have him at a disadvantage for once, but instead of engaging with her, he turned to Lestrade.

Lestrade looked a bit taken back by the look before saying; "I assume that Mr. Wilson did not tell you about the break-in?"

"His office was broken into?" Sherlock asked, pushing past the people, eyes darting towards the door to the office, scanning the lock, the handle, the hinges...

"No. It seems that a break-in was performed from Mr. Wilson's office to the room next door," Lestrade indicated to the remaining door down the corridor between Mr. Wilson's office and the backdoor at the end, and could not quite hide the satisfaction of knowing something Sherlock didn't, even if this was irrational, as there was no way for Sherlock to know - Not psychic, right?

Sherlock stood up straight, taking in a sudden breath, as if inhaling the information. A moment, and then a grin formed on his face; "Oh, some gifts just keeps on giving."

"Sherlock…" John drew the detective's attention, before nodding towards the slightly shocked onlookers, "This is still a murder scene…"

Sherlock collected himself a bit, but his excitement was still evident; "Yes, of course. Let's have a look then."

Lestrade for once succeeded in making Sherlock wear the blue plastic shoe covers, since most of the entrance to the office was covered by a streak of red. They carefully stepped around it when entering.

The office was fairly small and looked very much like the rest of the building; White, steel, glass, clean, with the furniture perfectly fitting into the modern style. If you overlooked the blood on the floor and one missing floor tile in the middle of the room. The hole in the floor revealed that the office was placed upon a raised floor, electrical supply and similar routed underneath.

"Where is the body?" Sherlock asked displeased.

"On his way to the morgue," Lestrade informed, "He had been shot in the chest, close to the heart."

"Explains the amount of blood," John looked around at the well-covered floor between the door and the middle of the room.

"Yes, which is actually how we discovered the break-in," Pride seeped into the DI's voice when directing John's attention to the missing floor tile, which had been removed from its place among the other tiles to lay on a plastic cover, collected for evidence, "As you see, this tile is almost free of blood, whereas the tiles next to this, in the direction of the door, is plenty covered. The tile must have been removed when the poor guy was bleeding in the room and then placed later, when most of the blood flow had stopped. That's when we discovered the tunnel to the room next door."

Sherlock went to the side of the hole in the floor not covered in blood and kneeled on the floor, sticking his head down the hole. He re-emerged a moment later, eyes shining and a small smile playing on his lips, sending the DI a look that almost seemed… proud; "Not bad, Inspector."

Lestrade clearly bathed in the rare compliment.

Sherlock stood back up, starting to dart around the office, collecting data; crawling on the floor with his pocket magnifying glass, skimming across the windows, looking over the papers on the desk. Lestrade and John shared a knowing look, having been in this situation too many times to count.

"So, how did things go with our killer last night?" John asked.

"Good. Confessed."

"Really?"

"I believe his words were; 'If I confess, will you keep that insane detective away from me?'" Lestrade couldn't hide a grin.

John chuckled; "Well, Sherlock did deduce some pretty ugly truths about his mother when we caught him."

At that moment Sherlock returned to them, starting to remove his scarf and coat; "Well, if you have issues with your mother, you should just get it over with and kill her instead of your surrogate girlfriend."

Sherlock tossed the scarf and coat at John, who caught it by reflex, sending him a puzzled look. Sherlock just indicated towards the hole between them before cheekily stating; "See you on the other side."

John and Lestrade looked as Sherlock leaped into the hole, surprisingly elegant considering the tall man folding into the small space below the raised floor. They stood there until Sherlock had moved out of sight before Lestrade lead John to the room next door.

The room was smaller than the office, and it was empty. Where the office had normal windows, this room only had a small row of windows close to the ceiling on the opposite side of the door. It looked like a storage room. However, unlike the office, the floor did not have tiles, but seemed to be made of concrete, judging by the rough hole in the floor.

John turned to Lestrade; "Anything taken from here?"

Lestrade looked frustrated; "We don't know. We haven't been able to track down the owner yet. But there must be a reason for the tunnel? Not to mention something worth killing for, right?"

Sherlock emerged from the hole, more or less covered with a thin layer of dust and dirt. He ran his hands through his hair, removing most of the dust, but did not seem to care about the state of his suit. He quickly assessed the small room in the same manner as the office, scooping up and down the floor, walls and high-up windows - for once the man's height came into an advantage that did not include hovering over John.

Lestrade looked at him; "Found anything?"

Sherlock made a non-committal sound.

"Did you expect an answer?" John asked with an amused smile.

Lestrade smirked; "Well, he usually shares some of his findings, so we can pet him on the head and tell him what a clever boy he is."

"I can hear you," Sherlock growled from the floor.

"Careful, Greg. I didn't bring a muzzle, he might bite," John giggled slightly.

A moment more passed before Sherlock abruptly stood, putting his magnifying glass away, "If the Yard didn't use their time making childish remarks, they might actually solve these cases themselves."

"So you solved it?" Lestrade asked, not able to hide the hopefulness in his voice.

However, instead of the familiar its-obvious-if-only-you-used-your-brain-speech, Sherlock looked away, first almost looking embarrassed before breaking into a grin; "Not yet."


	5. Chapter 5

The quiet cab ride was nothing unusual, but John knew by now, from bitter experience, that if Sherlock had not already figured out at least some of the mystery, he would have ditched John in order to have some peace and quiet to think in the cab ride home. The only reason that Sherlock had not wanted to share his findings with Lestrade was that he wanted the case to himself. He had swirled out of the room, clearly making an extra show of it to rub it in the Yard's face, though promising to contact the DI whenever he had any news in the case. Translation: When he had already solved it.

"Come on, Sherlock. I know you want to show off," John said resignedly, a bit tired of always having to prompt his friend to enlighten him. Sherlock seemed to keep forgetting that John did not follow the same elaborate brain patterns as Sherlock himself, or maybe - quite flatteringly - Sherlock kept overestimating John's abilities to make his own deductions.

Sherlock smirked; "Oh, this is a good one, John."

"Yes, I realise that, but what do you make of it?"

"Well, it seems that someone has been planning a neat little theft, adding murder to the crime by accident," Sherlock stated.

"By accident?" John exclaimed.

"The guard walked in on them, they had to keep him from raising the alarm. An unfortunate casualty."

John let that sink in before asking; "So who did it?"

Sherlock sent him a sideways glance; "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Assume that Mr. Wilson is innocent based on his, admittedly fascinating, story."

"You think he did it?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock seemed to squirm for a second before admitting; "With all due respect to our client, I do not believe he has the imagination to make up such an exquisite story."

"So, you believe that he is innocent?"

"Yes, though I must admit that it is just that, a belief. The evidence is still not clear."

"Meaning…?"

"Everything at the crime scene could point to Mr. Wilson. It is his office and he clearly has the knowledge of building constructions needed to excavate a tunnel underneath the raised floor and into the concrete one next door. What you didn't see, John, is that the wall between Mr. Wilson's office and adjacent room is a  
load bearing wall, thus a supporting structure was built in order to support the wall above the excavation. Quite clever, and something an engineer would easily be able to do. However, nothing about Mr. Wilson's hands indicated manual labour, and it would be difficult, though not impossible, to execute alone."

John couldn't help but to be baffled by this realisation but decided to hold onto the fact that the fact-driven detective had, for once, admitted taking a small leap of faith; "But you believe that he is innocent. So, someone went through quite a charade to frame him. Why?"

Sherlock smiled; "Why indeed."

"Come on, Sherlock, what does it all mean?"

Sherlock took a second to bathe in John's eagerness before relating his line of thought; "Mr. Wilson pointed out the three special requests from Mr. Ross. One, Mr. Wilson had to work on site, of course keeping him from his office. Simple. Second, the laptop. Genius. Removing all evidence of the so-called 'data centre project' from Mr. Wilson's office, so he doesn't have anything to support his story. Just discard the laptop and his story becomes a fairy tale. Third, and most importantly, the working hours. Mr. Wilson was only allowed at the data centre at a time where people would be busy with lunch, not concerned with noticing another businessman coming and going. Some would probably recognize him but find it hard to place him. You could always argue that Mr. Wilson made some appearances in the area to support his own cover story. Further, the office building of Mr. Wilson's own office would be most empty at that time of day, people going out for lunch, thus making it easier for Mr. Ross' associates to sneak into the building and construct the tunnel with minimum chance of being discovered. You heard Miss Parker saying that she had heard noise from the office, probably on her way out to have a smoke, but nothing so alarming as to investigate it further. The office being at the end of the corridor and on the ground floor, considering that the work was performed under the floor, further helped muffle the noise. They took their time and were well-prepared. The fact that Mr. Wilson often worked from home in the morning gave them additional preparation time. Lastly, by working during the day, they avoided the rounds of the security guards. No one suspects a slow, meticulous day-time robbery."

John stared for a moment but could only reply with the familiar; "Brilliant."

"Yes, isn't it, John?" Sherlock's eyes were flaming, the game was on.

"But, if they knew about the guards and how to avoid them, why did Burt end up dead?"

"The robbery itself had to be performed during night, most likely they went in Friday night, giving them until this morning to get away with their spoils before anyone would have good reason to be at the office. Burt must somehow had surprised them. Extra round during the weekend, maybe an alarm was triggered? Will have to look into that…" Sherlock trailed off.

"What about the curious payments. Can't they be traced?" John asked after turning everything in his head.

"Doubt it. I do not believe our culprits would be so sloppy as to leave a paper trail like that. They did complicate matters by making many small payments, but it was no doubt a way to keep Mr. Wilson invested in the 'project'."

"It is quite an expensive way to get access to an office."

"Yes. Whatever was on the other side of the wall must have been worth it."

"You… don't know?" John asked carefully.

Sherlock sent him a stabbing look and bit out; "Not yet. The scene was surprisingly clean. We are dealing with professionals."

They sat in silence for a while before another thought struck John; "Why the hole in the floor? Why not just break into the storage room through the main door? Surely, it must had been much easier."

Sherlock turned to look at him, clearly content with John asking this exact question; "Because for a storage room, it had quite an elaborate security system on the door and windows. Much easier to break through a concrete floor than deactivate the sensors on the door and windows, not to mention the windows being too small to enter through. No one puts an alarm on the floor."

"But we just walked in there?" John asked, feeling a bit stupid for asking.

"Because the door had been opened from the inside, really John, try to think. Most locks are much easier to open when already inside. They brought down the alarm, opened the door and took whatever was in the room out the back door. So beautifully simple," Sherlock leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, his hands pressed together in front of his face in thinking position, a clear look of excited contentment on his face.

John would not have to worry about his friend's addiction for at least the remainder of the week.

The cab dropped John off at his house. Sherlock did not foresee any developments in the case for the rest of the day but promised to let John know if anything turned up. John, however, knew that Sherlock was unlikely to let him know anything unless he needed an accomplish in the practical execution of the investigation.

It was late afternoon, but still leaving an entire evening for him to spend with his daughter. So, he put the case on the shelf for the night and made a homecooked meal for his daughter and tenant.


	6. Chapter 6

John didn't hear much about the case in the following weeks. Sherlock dropped some superficial remarks about having gone to the 'data centre' - _"Clean as a whistle, John!"_ \- and seeing the body of Burt the security guard - _"Shot to the heart, clean, nothing of interest. Boring. I doubt even his three cats will miss him. The man only had one redeeming character; If he had not been shot, we would probably not have noticed the robbery so quickly. The floor tile would have been put back in place and we would have been none the wiser. So, in some way, I guess he deserves special thanks."_

The most mysterious aspect of the case continued to be the content of the storage room. There was no sign of the owner, and thus no claim to whatever had been stolen. The Yard was starting to doubt if there had even been a robbery, but Sherlock remained firm.

It was a quiet period for them. John having plenty of time for Rosie and the clinic. Sherlock taking minor cases and mainly advising Lestrade by text messaging.

John took care to bring Rosie around Baker Street often these days.

John therefore sighed in relief when he received a text from Sherlock; _New case. Be ready in 10. - SH_

He left Rosie in Thomas' care - Did the man actually seem relieved to see John leaving for a case? - and jumped into the cab that stopped in front of his house.

"Where are we off to?" John eagerly asked once seated and the cabbie quickly took off.

"Mayfair," He detective smiled, "Interesting little thing, I am almost compelled to call it a classic."

"Meaning?"

"According to Lestrade, it is suicide. According to the landlord, it is murder. The tricky thing is, it happened in a closed off room, all security systems on."

"So a closed room murder? That _is_ a classic," John could not help the excitement filling him, "But why would Lestrade listen to the landlord if he is convinced it is suicide?"

"According to the landlord the man had been paranoid, claiming someone was after him and locking himself up in his apartment. I guess Lestrade wants to make sure he is not overlooking anything. Oh God, I hope he overlooked something - I _need_ a good case!" Sherlock radiated desperation.

"How was it done?" John inquired.

The detective changed to an excited smile; "Hanging."

They soon reached their destination, an exhausted Lestrade waiting for them outside. Apparently, he had not had as quiet a month as they had. John felt bad for the man, he meant so well but seemed to rarely get a break. He made a mental note to invite him out for a pint later.

"Sherlock, John. Good to see you," He greeted.

"Greg," Sherlock countered, allowing for rare sentiment when showing that he still remembered the man's first name. He clearly saw the man's exhaustion as well, and probably to a much larger degree than John.

"The forensic guys are out for 20 more minutes for lunch. Please, make it quick," Lestrade looked beggingly, obviously trying to avoid any conflicts between the detective and the yarders.

"Ashamed of me? And here I thought we had something special," Sherlock said mockingly before striding inside.

Lestrade shot a look at John at the remark; "Been a slow week?"

"You have no idea…" John followed Lestrade into the house.

It was an older building that had been modernised and contained six apartments, three floors with two apartments, one to each side of the stairway.

In the hall, a man was sitting on the stairs, looking pale and fidgeting with his hands.

"So, the landlord found the body. Interesting," Sherlock stated.

The man - The landlord, apparently - looked up surprised, but seemed to pale even more at the boldness of the statement.

"Sherlock…" John berated in a warning tone.

"Well, it is interesting. Most suicides are found by family members or friends, so why the landlord?" Sherlock almost scolded John.

"Well… Mr. Blessington didn't have any family or friends that I know of. I don't think he ever had any visitors," The landlord seemed to regain the ability to speak.

"So what made you suspicious?" John asked.

"The smell, oh God, the smell!" The man despaired.

"It's alright, Mr. Russell," Lestrade tried to sooth the man, though not with great patience, before turning to Sherlock; "The body has been there for some time. The smell started getting bad and when he couldn't get into contact with Mr. Blessington, Mr. Russell called the police and a locksmith. Mr. Blessington did not allow Mr. Russell to keep a spare key. That's how they found the body. The door was locked, and the alarm system went off when they entered."

Sherlock seemed to mentally study the information before turning to Mr. Russell; "Just one last thing; You told Lestrade that the man was paranoid. How so?"

"Well, I live in the apartment in there," The man gestured to one of the ground floor apartments, "And I take care of the house and the grounds, so I would run into him regularly. In the last month, he seems to have left his apartment as little as possible, and when I finally did meet him, he would ask me if anyone had been here asking for him, or if I had seen anyone lurking around the grounds, or anyone looking suspicious. He just had a permanent deer-in-a-headlights kind of look."

Sherlock hummed in approval, a smirk to his face, before turning up the stairs towards the apartment marked by police tape.

Lestrade thanked the landlord before he and John followed.

The apartment in question was placed on the second floor, and even if the police tape had not guided them to the location, the smell certainly did. It appeared to have been a part of an old storehouse, now modernised to house people instead of grain. During the modernisation, the rafters from the old building had likewise been renewed and made quite a feature in the room. Or maybe it appeared so due to the dead man hanging from one of them.

"Ah! Body still hanging, how wonderful!" Sherlock exclaimed, starting circling the hanging man.

"Sherlock… Possible suicide, no time to be excited," John chided.

Sherlock ignored him, and instead started circling the apartment, entering and leaving the bedroom and bathroom adjourning the living room, closely inspecting the sparse furniture, opening and closing cupboards. There seemed to be very few personal touches, just a plant here and there and some papers scattered over a small desk.

He finally stopped, acknowledging John and Lestrade's presence once more; "Don't worry, John. It was clearly murder."

"Clearly murder?" Lestrade asked with disbelief.

"Actually, more like an execution," Sherlock corrected himself.

"Execution?"

"I get the feeling that despite you repeating my words, you are no closer to comprehending them," Sherlock stated, slightly annoyed.

"Then, please, explain it," John was getting a bit tired of Sherlock's games, which was mainly due to the lack of stimulation in the last couple of weeks.

"Alright," Sherlock turned to them with a smile, "The victim was clearly not a smoker, no nicotine on his fingers, no lingering smell of smoke in the apartment or his clothes, yet we have ashes and cigarette buds in the plant closes to the hanging site. Even if our paranoid friend should have invited in a smoker, I doubt a welcomed guess would be using the flowerpot as an ash tray. Our friend does not own a down jacket either, yet there are traces of downs on the couch, but only by the end pointing towards the hanging. Lastly, he is not a man to get his hands dirty - quite the contrary, look at them -, and yet there are fresh oil smears on the dining room chair, again closest to the hanging. Thus, it seems that three persons have been here, one by the plant, one on the sofa and one on the dining room chair, encircling our poor victim, acting jury, judge and executioner."

"Amazing," John gaped at the detective, "But how did they get him in the noose?"

"Gun, probably, dull. The real question i-," Sherlock ended by taking in a deep breath, putting his hands together in front of his face, apparently taken aback by the implications of his own deductions. His interest was peaking, and his eyes seemed to focus in on a different plane of reality, putting together a puzzle by interpolating the missing pieces before breathing out; "…And why? What did Mr. Blessington do to deserve such a trial?"

He suddenly strode towards the desk again, but before John and Lestrade could follow his movements, covered by that damn coat, Sherlock turned again and sent a penetrating look at the body before striding decisively towards it. He quirked his head, looking closely at the dead man's face. The deterioration had of course not done anything good to the man, making his features harder to make out. Once again, Sherlock's height came to his advantage, as he could peer unto the smaller man, despite him soaring slightly over the ground.

As abruptly, he stood tall again; "Well, this makes 15 minutes. We better be off. John!"

The detective strode out the apartment, John hurrying to keep up with him, leaving a blabbering Lestrade. The DI apparently gave up on chasing down the detective, instead looking resignedly at his crime scene; How was he going to get his team to change their opinion of the site, without mentioning that Sherlock had stopped by?

"What is it?" John asked once outside.

Sherlock turned to look at him, a smile to his face, just casually asking; "How would you feel about a stroll by Port of London?"


	7. Chapter 7

"And what are we doing here?" John asked, stepping out after yet another cab ride.

"Enjoying the nice weather!" Sherlock was much too enthusiastic.

"Sherlock…" John growled warningly.

"This way," The detective started strolling down the dock, efficiently cutting off John's objections.

The weather was truly nice, the spring was warm and inviting, and by the port the sun was playing in the surface of the Thames.

John hurried to walk next to the detective instead of behind him; "What did you see in the apartment that made you want to come here? A special kind of dirt under his shoes? A feather from a seagull? A smell of the Thames of his jacket?"

"Stop guessing to provoke me, John, it really doesn't suit you," Sherlock berated and pulled out a sheet of paper, probably 'kindly lend' from the desk at crime scene.

John took the paper; "Addresses for the Port of London Authorities?"

"And this one is encircled," Sherlock barley hid his excitement when he turned towards the building coming up on their right.

John looked down at the paper; "There's a note: 'Aurora'. Name of a ship?"

"Very good, John," Sherlock strode past the official building towards a container yard further down the docks.

John looked between the building and the detective; "But, this is the adre- Sherlock!"

The yard was surrounded by a fence, and the entrance guarded by a bored looking guard in a sentry-box overlooking the bars granting access to the trucks bringing and collecting containers from the area.

They stood for a while, just seeing how truck after truck passed through. For John it looked quite predictable and simple. Maybe they could just sneak in behind one of the trucks?

"Don't underestimate it, John. There are plenty of hidden cameras helping our unmotivated looking guard, and he has worked here for 10 plus years. If he didn't do a proper job, he would not hold his position for that long. Plus, he is not the only security. At least six guards with sniffer dogs are patrolling the area."

"So… basically you're saying that we are about to do something stupid," John said resignedly.

"No, something brilliantly simple," Sherlock smiled and strolled up to the guard.

"No unauthori-," The guard began playing a worn, familiar record to keep out prying eyes from the area.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock stated authoritarian and quickly flashed a 'borrowed' police ID, making sure the guard did not catch the picture or the department of the 'DI' on the badge.

John fought to keep a straight face.

The guard perked up from his seat, looking exhausted; "Not another raid?"

Sherlock picked up the cue; "No, no, just a spot-check. Nothing major, we just need to sample your shipping documents, making sure everything is filled in correctly, and if we find no discrepancies, we shall be out of your way."

"Huh, at least that's something," The guard slowly got up from his chair.

Sherlock turned to John, a satisfied grin on his face; "Simple."

"You know, most people would qualify using a stolen police badge as 'doing something stupid'," John said, though he could not quite keep a serious face.

"Most people are stupid," Sherlock countered childishly, before turning back to the guard in the sentry-box who looked back out at them.

"Joe here will take you to the office," The guard nodded his head towards another guard walking towards them, sniffer dog loyally walking next to him.

Joe greeted them superficially with a nod of the head before walking towards some worn-looking site-hut-turned-office.

Walking a few steps behind the guard, John dared joking; "Maybe I should get one of those dogs, to make sure you keep clean."

"Considering how you did with Toby, I cannot recommend it," Sherlock coldly countered, though his eyes shone with mirth.

Joe guided them into one of the small offices. Papers were piled in letter trays, tagged with different stages of the shipping process, and bookcases filled with folders took up an entire wall. John was surprised by the amount of paper, considering the day and age. Next, he wondered how they would ever find Aurora in the organised mess, not knowing which stage the ship might be in, or if it was even still here.

"Another raid," Joe grumpily informed the office assistants.

"God, you think we're all smugglers down here?" A young man mumbled from a corner.

"Just a spot-check, so let's keep this quick and simple, shall we? Let's take something from the letter "A"," Sherlock stood with his hands behind his back, an almost-friendly looking smile and an expectant look to the nearest office assistant.

With a quick glance towards Joe, who nodded approvingly, the woman picked up her laptop to show them her screen, starting to open their management system.

 _God, this is too easy…_ John could help the thought from crossing his mind before reminding himself that they were only here because of Sherlock's light-fingeredness.

"Yes, yes, seems in order," Sherlock was growing impatient the closer he got to his target, but kept up the friendly façade; "Let's see the papers of… this, this aaand this."

Sherlock pointed to what appeared to be three random names on the screen, but one was anything but.

The woman stood up and went to one of the letter trays; "Both Affinity and Aurora is due to leave tomorrow morning, so the shipment papers are right here, ready for pick-up. Agate left yesterday, so we keep the papers in a folder over here unt-"

"Very good, if you would just get that folder, it should be enough for today," Sherlock interrupted, and started flicking through the papers from the letter tray while the woman went to the bookcase.

John was certain that the detective's eyes was only truly looking into the documents of one particular ship.

When the woman dropped the folder down on the table, Sherlock looked up from the papers with a smirk; "That should be all."

Sherlock turned on his heels and started walking out the door. Every eye in the room turned to John, stunned by the abrupt end to the so-called spot-check. The woman looked expectantly between him and the folder she had just brought them.

John smiled stiffly before quickly following Sherlock; "Thank you for your cooperation."

Joe hurried after them, settling for walking behind them this time, but still following them to the gate.

"Done already?" The guard in the sentry-box asked when they passed him, but Sherlock just ignored him and walked out into the street.

John continued with a tight smile to the guard but heard Joe exclaiming in amazement; "Most effective coppers we've ever had!"

John caught up with Sherlock, who stood with his hands in thinking position in front of his face, most likely analysing the data he had just collected; "Sounds like you are welcome you to raid the port again any day."

"The downside of bureaucracy. People rejoice once they experience efficiency," He smiled at John.

"Looks like you found something?" John enquired.

"The pieces are falling into place," The excitement was evident, but it was also clear that Sherlock was keeping the cards close for now when he added, "Would you be available for an expedition tonight?"

"Depends…."

"Depends?" Sherlock was baffled for a moment, turning towards John. It was never a good thing when his Doctor didn't immediately jump on the opportunity to settle his desire for action.

"I think you owe Lestrade a thank you," John send him a saying look.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John; the man clearly had sinister plans: "Really?"

"Yup… So, you are buying the first round."


	8. Chapter 8

It was still a rare sight to see Sherlock join for a pint at the local pub. None the less, he had made an effort to join, at least when it was only John and Greg and not anyone else from the Yard. It was tedious, it was nerve-grinding in every wrong way.

It was sentiment, and it was difficult. But it was worth it. It was a hard-learned lesson, but an important one. Time was precious, and every time he could muster the patience to spend some time with the few people that he had not succeeded in pushing away through his inconsiderate behaviour, he would do so.

But it helped greatly when he could use the time to line up the players for the last part of a game; "I recommend you settle for a soft drink tonight, gentlemen."

"Starting to worry about the health guidelines for alcohol?" Lestrade smirked disbelievingly.

"No, especially since your lack of a proper sleeping pattern is of more danger to your health than your recreational drinking-"

"One to talk…"

"-But I believe you are not allowed to lead an arrest tonight if intoxicated."

"What?" Lestrade was baffled.

"I guess I could notify Inspector Bradstreet instead…"

"Don't you dare!"

"Very well," Sherlock smiled and handed over a small note with an address, "Port of London, ten o'clock."

"And who will I be arresting?" Lestrade asked.

"Now, now, Greg, don't spoil the surprise. Just bring your least annoying officers and your troubles will be worth it," Sherlock waved the inspector off.

Lestrade's mouth opened and closed multiple times, debating whether to demand more information, to tell Sherlock to stay out of police business, to stop playing games, to… His mouth closed, as he once again caved, and he stood in order to make a call.

"Will you be having anything?" John asked.

"Case," Short, simple answer.

"Water?"

"Case."

"Right," John stood and held out his hand.

Sherlock looked perplexed, before remembering the terms of John's involvement in tonight's activities. He dug into his coat and handed John his wallet.

John happily strode to the bar to collect their drinks and something light to eat before tonight's action. He would have to make a stop at home first, picking up his faithful gun. He painfully decided not to go home until he was sure that Rosie would be in bed, not wanting to walk in for two minutes, just to leave again. Maybe Rosie would have preferred to see him, even for such a short while, but he had to stay focused on the task at hand.

He returned to the table at the same time as Greg, who gratefully took his drink, though he sent a longing look towards the pints at a neighbouring table.

"Rough week?" John asked, taking a sip of his own drink.

"Rough month," the DI answered.

"Sorry to hear that. Anything going on?"

"The usual. Cost-cutting, fewer resources, more cases, lower tolerance for unsolved cases," Lestrade looked more and more tired for each issue he could rattle off.

John send a pointed look at Sherlock. It took a moment for the otherwise observant detective to catch on, though he seemed unable to interpret the look. John nodded his head towards Lestrade when the man took a sip of his drink and therefore couldn't see John's attempt at non-verbal communication with the detective. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in lack of understanding.

Taking a breath, John decided to make the offer on the detective's behalf; "If you need Sherlock to look into some cases, just say so."

Another pointed look at Sherlock before Lestrade turned to look at the detective.

"Ah! Uhm, yes, of course…" Sherlock tried to feign willingness to help. He was well-aware of the ongoing cases and they certainly were not worth his time.

The inspector caught on to his reluctance and settled for a small smile; "Thanks. I'll think about it."

A slightly awkward silence settled between them. John and Lestrade looking for a subject to talk about, knowing that their usual setlist of sports being out of the question if they wanted Sherlock to be just somewhat engaged, which they usually strived to when he finally joined them on an evening out.

Sherlock, however, was quickly looking for new stimulant, his eyes darting around, probably deducing everyone and everything around them.

"Sherlock," John called for his attention again, "Did you give back what you found?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, this time in annoyance; "No."

"Don't you think you should?" John asked pointedly.

"No."

Lestrade looked back and forth between the two, clearly sensing the tension.

"Sherlock, I _will_ throw away the skull."

Damn. He was being serious.

Sherlock once again dug into his coat by order of John, this time casually throwing Lestrade's badge on the table.

"Where the hell…?" Lestrade picked up the old badge, first looking surprised, before anger settled in.

"We found it home at Baker Street, just wanted to return it," John quickly intervened before Lestrade could say more.

"Really?" Lestrade growled, clearly did not believe him, but chose not to call him out.

In a classic case of 'saved by the bell', a single ding announced their food being ready for pick-up.

They ate quickly, keeping their conversation to work related matters. They got Sherlock to deduce some of the people around them, and John and Lestrade could not help mocking some of his deductions despite both being secretly impressed and soaking in every pearl of wisdom the man could offer them.

When they had finished eating, Lestrade left them to prepare for the arrest in just under three hours, giving Sherlock one last reprimand of not going in before they met up at the location.

"You alerted the police. Giving Greg the arrest," John stated once he and Sherlock was alone.

Sherlock answered with a non-committal sound, rubbing his hands together absentmindedly.

"That was very sensible and very nice of you… Are you feeling alright?" John asked, sarcasm evident in his voice.

Sherlock sniggered; "Oh, don't be so naïve, John. We'll be starting the last steps of _our_ investigation _right now_."


	9. Chapter 9

After a quick stop by John's house, they once again stood at the site of Port of London. The gates were now closed, and the site being dark and quiet. There was no traffic in the area, as there was no business to have in the area with the Port being closed.

"How will we get in this time?" John asked.

"We won't," Sherlock simply stated and stated walking around the area towards the anchorages.

A few other people were walking by the water, romantic strolls in the warm evening with the last rays of sun setting over the water. The Port was filled with industrial ships of different sizes, and it dawned on John where they were heading; "Why didn't we just go straight to the ship earlier?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and looked puzzled at John; "Did that question not occur to you until now?"

John almost growled in frustration. Sherlock was well familiar with this facial expression by now, and therefore took a deep breath to keep his voice as neutral as possible when explaining; "I needed to know if the cargo I was expecting was on board or if it was still on land. It was also the quickest way to identify the docking site of the ship."

John, as per usual, had to acknowledge Sherlocks reasoning but was right now more frustrated with the many unanswered questions; "What cargo? And what does all of this have to do Blessington's murder?"

"I believe the idiom to be applied here is 'Patience is a virtue'," Sherlock smirked.

"Oh, you…" John mumbled and threw up his hands in frustrated surrender.

They stopped next to one of the smallest ships. It was placed by the end of a docking, far away from road traffic and pedestrians. The ship, or maybe boat was more appropriate when compared to the major industrial ships in the vicinity, was of older date but well kept. It could not carry any of the big containers, but could probably take in about 50 pallets, judging by the size of the closed loading hatch in the flooring of the deck.

With an impromptu ladder of a wooden pallet, they fairly easily jumped over the railing. Everything was quiet besides the lulling sound of the river hitting the side of the ship.

With a wave of his hand, Sherlock guided them towards the wheelhouse. The door was open, and a few steps lead down to a small hallway. Sherlock guided them towards an open door in the opposite end of the door they had just entered through, revealing a descending stair. Quietly, they descended to the lower level of the ship.

The cargo hold was filled with crates of different sizes. Sherlock immediately darted in between them, clearly looking for something specific. John walked to the nearest ones, not knowing what to look for, and instead read the delivery note stapled to the wood of the first and best crate he could find.

'30 pcs. of dresses'

_What?_

John started reading more notes; Clothing, shoes, clothing, accessories…?

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell is this?" He hissed, not daring to speak too loudly.

Sherlock peeked out from his row of crates answering neutrally; "A shipment of garments, mostly."

"Mostly?" John asked.

Sherlock only smirked and winked at him before nodding down the way he had just come, indicating for John to follow him.

Sherlock waltzed towards the crates from where he had just come, grabbing a crowbar from the floor on his way, and started carefully removing the lid of a crate by the end of the row while explaining; "You see, John. Our unfortunate Mr. Blessington was involved with a group of malicious thieves, who recently walked out a back door with quite an impressive spoil. But even if what they stole was small enough to be easily carried out the door, it was also easily recognisable, so they had to repackage it, and hide it among other goods."

Sherlock pushed the crate lid aside, and John walked up to stand next to him. After removing some protective wrapping from inside the crate, Sherlock revealed a line of small black boxes. He opened one of them and inside it laid a neat little woman's handbag. John looked confusedly between the content of the crate and Sherlock. Sherlock smiled at his expression and just nodded his head in the direction of the bag, urging John to pick it up.

Though confused, John couldn't refuse the request, nor ignore his own curiosity. He went to pick up the small rectangular bag by the strap, only to be surprised when the bag didn't come with him as easily as predicted. He gave it a stronger pull and the bag followed, though surprisingly heavy; "What the hell?"

Sherlock's grin became wider, as he reached for the bag, opening the zipper to reveal a smooth shining surface inside.

"Is that… A gold bar?"

"Worthy of the trouble of luring a man out of his office and meticulously dig a tunnel into a seemingly ordinary storage room and arrange a shipment from England full of clothes and even the murder of a poor security guard and a fellow criminal - Wouldn't you say?" Sherlock grinned.

"Wh- Bu- How did you know?" John was completely taken back.

"I must admit that I did not figure out that the spoil from the theft was gold bars, until I noticed the weight stated on the shipment list. Though I admit it is not one of my areas of expertise, it seemed heavy for something women should have slung over their shoulders. So I wondered, what could be carried in a handbag of the stated size and fit the stated weight of the shipping papers?"

"A gold bar, you clever bugger!" John stated with his proud-of-that-bloody-brilliant-detective-grin, giving Sherlock's arm an existed slap.

Sherlock only grinned back, proud to once again impress his friend.

"Very clever indeed."

John and Sherlock turned towards the voice behind them. Damn, neither of them had heard someone sneaking up on them, too caught up in the pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

Behind them, a man was pointing a gun at them. He looked fairly small and ordinary, if it was not for the ugly scar marring his forehead and the vicious gleam in his eyes. They both raised their hands.

"John, allow me to introduce Mr. John Clay, thief extraordinaire," Sherlock spoke calmly, though his stiff demeanour spoke of his vigilance.

"Mr. Holmes, I cannot say that it is a pleasure to see you again," The man, John Clay, answered with a sinister smile.

"Great. He knows you. He has a gun. Is there even the smallest possibility that you did not in any way piss him off?" John joked coldly.

"Considering that I send him to jail five years ago, Mhmm-No," Sherlock answered just a coolly.

Clay just smiled at their amicable exchange, not threatened by their lack of intimidation by the situation; "Well, I guess its time for payback, and what better time than the present? Gentlemen, the party will be upstairs."

He stepped aside, making room for Sherlock and John to pass by him without there being able to come close enough to try to disarm him, at least not without him making the shot first. He also made sure they kept a distance between each other when walking up the stairs. This was clearly not his first time taking hostages, which was only confirmed when John started ascending the stairs and the man exclaimed; "Stop right there!"

Sherlock froze from further up the stairs but did not dare to look back at John.

Clay walked up behind John, and John let a harsh breath go when he felt his gun being removed from his waist band. Walking up the stairs, with his hand held high, had revealed the weapon to their capturer, and he was clearly very pleased with himself; "Very nice piece. Thank you for the parting gift. Now move!"

At the top of the stairs, they were met by two more men and one more gun pointed at them. The gun-less man was clearly well trained and seemed much too big in the small space of the wheelhouse. The holder of the gun was older than his two companions by at least a decade and dressed as a businessman, also very out of place in the cargo ship.

Clay handed John's gun to his gun-less companion.

Sherlock kept up his cool demeanour and looked at John while indicating to the older man; "And this must be Mr. Duncan Ross, the brain of the operation and the owner of the faux data centre where our friend Mr. Wilson wasted his valuable time."

"Mr. Holmes, we meet at last. I have followed your career with great interest," Ross answered smoothly, politely.

After a moment of silence, John nodded his head towards the last man; "And him?"

"Unimportant muscle," Sherlock answered shortly.

Involuntarily proving Sherlock's point, the man took just two seconds too long before answering a weak; "Oi…"

"Now, now, Mr. Holmes, let's not prolong this. Let's take a walk outside," Ross started walking towards the door, Clay and Muscle following behind.

Before walking up the stairs, Sherlock and John shared a look; _Either we walk to our death, or we try something stupid._

Sherlock started walking up the few stairs from the wheelhouse to the deck, regretting his position closest to the stairs, but putting his trust in the former soldier.

Once Sherlock's upper body, and thus vital organs, was out of sight, John shouted; "Now!"

Sherlock jumped the last steps, catching Ross around the legs, effectively throwing the man on his side, sending his gun skating across the deck. Sherlock jumped the man, only to receive a kick to his stomach. Though it was not a very powerful kick, it resulted in the detective clumsily landing upon the other man, their fight turning into fruitless wrestling and tucking of clothes and sharp elbows. Neither let the other get enough space to throw an actual punch.

Sherlock's brain was rambling in fighting strategies and techniques, but it all came back to _Keep him away from the gun - Get the gun!_

They both scrambled closer towards the gun, shoving away the other's hands and reaching with their own.

A loud bang from behind made Sherlock freeze for a moment; _John_.

His focus changed from _Get the gun_ to _Get the gun away_. With a violent shove at his opponent, he managed to kick at the gun, effectively sending it under the railing and into the sea.

With the weapon out of the way, Sherlock managed to untangle himself from the other man.

Ross seemed to understand Sherlock's reluctance and instead of attacking Sherlock again, he stood up and smiled grimly; "Coming for me? Or the Doctor?" Before turning and jumping off the side of the ship and running away down the dockings.

It would once had been an easy decision; _Get the culprit. Solve the crime. Whatever the cost. Nothing is more important than the work_.

In retrospect, it only felt easy, because it had no real value. The work was only important, fore there was nothing else.

The decision was no harder today, but riskier, as he now had a full life with friendships gained, and friendships to keep. And friendships to lose.

Sherlock immediately ran towards the wheelhouse.


	10. Chapter 10

_Once Sherlock's upper body, and thus vital organs, was out of sight, John shouted; "Now!"_

John went for Clay first, recognising him as the quicker of the two opponents, knocking the gun out his hand with a firm blow to his wrist, making his hand spasm open. He quickly danced around the man, placing Clay between himself and Muscle, keeping out of line of the remaining gun.

Clay, though first surprised, quickly recovered and fought back, placing a solid fist to John's jaw. John retaliated with several hits to the kidney, making clay bend over.

However, this reopened Muscles line of sight to John, and thus his line of shooting.

John acted quickly, pushing hard against the crumbling Clay, shoving him into the other man. In the process, the gun was fired, and for a split-second John awaited the familiar agony splitting through his body. But it never came. Instead he heard the relieving sound of his own gun hitting the floor, having been knocked out of Muscles' hands when he was slammed between the wall and Clay.

Despite his upper hand, John realised his fragile two-against-one position and fumbled for a way to incapacitate at least one of his opponents. But the small space of the hallway made his possibilities very limited. He prayed that Sherlock was alright and had quickly taken care of Ross and would soon be coming to his aid.

While John was keeping the thieves pressed against the wall, Clay had unnoticedly snuck a flick-knife into his hand. John barely saw it, before the man slashed towards him.

John jumped back, painfully aware of the stairs behind him leading into the cargo hold below, a fall he very much preferred not to make.

Clay snickered victoriously at the change of advantage in the fight; "Get the gun, Fred. Let's finish this."

Muscle turned to locate the gun, but a second passed and then; "Uhm, Johnny?"

"What?" Clay hissed at his comrade, eyes still glued to the doctor.

"What this brainless excuse of a human being is trying to formulate is; Put. Down. The knife," Sherlock's deep icy voice broke the heat of the fight.

Muscle had taken up so much of the tiny space, that John had not been able to see that Sherlock had returned to the wheelhouse, and now stood at the opening to the small hallway, John's gun from the floor in hand, pointed at Clay, daring him to make the smallest of movements towards John.

Muscle must have been smarter than initially estimated, as he immediately threw up his hands.

"You idiot!" Clay furiously hissed at him.

"Knife. Down," Sherlock repeated coolly, a slight twitch to the gun making his intentions clear.

A last piercing look at Sherlock, and Clay angrily threw the knife to the floor. John quickly picked up both the knife and the other gun.

"And now, please step down to the cargo hold," Sherlock pointed towards the door behind them.

Muscle quickly made his way past both Clay and John, walking down the stairs behind them with his hands held high. Clays seemed undecisive about who to stare most venomously at; his submissive partner or the officious detective.

As soon as both men had stepped down to the cargo, John slammed the door and locked it behind them.

As soon as the door locked, Sherlock dropped his arm to his side, giving John a quick, concerned scan; "You alright?"

"Fine. Good timing, though," John couldn't help but smile, the adrenalin flowing freely; "You?"

"Fine. Now, let's summon Lestrade, shall we?"

Sherlock handed John his gun back before stepping into the adjourning cockpit and moments later came out with a flare gun in his hand. Before John could voice his disagreement, Sherlock had stepped outside and shot it into the sky as soon as he was clear from the eaves of the wheelhouse. He turned to John, declaring; "It is fifteen minutes to ten. I would be very disappointed if Lestrade is not already waiting in anticipation to make this arrest."

John stepped out and looked up at the red light flaring in the sky; "And you could not just have phoned him, because…?"

"Oh John, you know I can't resist a dramatic touch," Sherlock just smiled.

John laughed, wholeheartedly, and Sherlock quickly joined him. It was a beautiful clear evening, and very soon they heard voices from a distance, quickly moving closer.

John turned towards the sound, first then realising that Duncan Ross was nowhere to be seen; "Sherlock, where…"

"Oh, he got away," Sherlock quickly brushed away the question.

"Got aw- Sherlock! Why did you let him get away?" John asked in disbelief.

"I didn't _'let him get away'_ ", Sherlock huffed, but quickly softened, "I had a change of priorities."

John was about to question what those priorities could possibly be, but one look at the soft expression in Sherlock's eyes told him everything he needed to know, and he promptly closed his mouth. Instead he just nodded slowly; _Thank you_.

Luckily, the soon-to-be-awkward-and-much-too-emotional silence was interrupted by police officers entering the deck, among them the familiar face of Lestrade.

"Did you just shoot that?" He yelled at Sherlock.

"Very efficient, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock nodded proudly at the officers surrounding him and John.

Lestrade only gaped at them, clearly gathering the words for a tongue-lashing about the implications of using a flare gun, but Sherlock quickly interrupted him; "If you would be so kind as to have your officers pick up the two prisoners down in the cargo hold. Please be careful of the smaller man, he is in quite the sulking mood at the moment."

With a narrow stare at the detective, Lestrade pointed for three officers to follow the given instructions.

In the meantime, Lestrade seemed to finally take in the rumpled appearance of his two friends, and the growing bruising to John's chin; "You two alright? Looks like you been in a fight."

"Yeah, we are alright. Just a few bumps and bruises," John answered casually.

"And where did you get that?" Lestrade pointed carefully to the gun in John's hand, Clays discarded gun that he had picked up earlier.

"From your soon to be prisoners. The ballistics will most likely fit the bullet found in poor Burt, proving Mr. Wilson's innocence. If not, there is a second gun in the water to your right worth collecting and testing," Sherlock answered cheerily.

"What? Burt-who?" Lestrade gasped, while an officer retrieved the gun from John.

Before Sherlock could answer Lestrade's stuttering, the officers stepped out of the wheelhouse with the now handcuffed men, and Sherlock perked up; "Ah! Lestrade, allow me to introduce you to Mr. John Clay, expert in security systems and especially the art of breaking them, and next to him an insignificant bundle of muscles. You have already met their old friend, Mr. Percy Blessington, though they probably know him better as Percy Sutton," Sherlock went from excitement to regret in a second when continuing, "I had intended to also introduce you to Mr. Duncan Ross, the so-called brain of the operation. Unfortunately, he proved to be a very proficient runner."

Lestrade looked shocked between Sherlock and the criminals before settling for; "And who the hell are they?"

"Just your thieves from Mr. Wilson's office, the murderers of Burt the Guard and of cause their fellow thief, Percy Sutton, or as you know him, Percy Blessington," Sherlock answered casually.

Lestrade's eyes grew to double size.

"I'd say this should keep your superiors off your back for a week or two," Sherlock stated as a child seeking their parent's approval. However, his expression quickly changed when he saw Lestrade's still confused face, and he sighed; "Where in my line of actual thinking did I lose you?"

"I… Uhm… Did you-Is there a line?" Lestrade stuttered.

"Oh, come on, Inspector! One thing is your limited cognitive capacity, but what on earth are you using it for?" Sherlock exclaimed, looking puzzled between the officers surrounding them.

"Uhm, Sherlock…" John drew his attention, "How about you just skip to the part where you enlighten us? I'm honestly not quite getting the connection between the theft and Blessington's murder either."

A deep breath, and Sherlock repeated what he had earlier related to John, regarding Mr. Wilsons predicament; The peculiar working conditions and how they facilitated the theft. He did, however, now add how the burglary had in actuality taken place; "Duncan Ross, as mentioned, was the brain behind the burglary. He planned it, he fabricated the story to keep Mr. Wilson out of his office, he created the list of conditions to be met by Mr. Wilsons to give his business partners time to work on the tunnel between Mr. Wilson's office and the storage room. Mr. Clay is exceptional in breaking security systems and was thus hired to first break into Mr. Wilsons office and later out of the storage room. Mr. Sutton has a background as a construction engineer and thus help design the tunnel underneath the load bearing wall and the excavation itself. And of cause, they needed Mr. Muscle for physical excavation assistance, and with a background as a mechanic, he was more than capable."

"Well, I be… And you said that the constructor, Sutton, is really Percy Blessington?" Lestrade had started smiling, realising the magnitude of the case Sherlock was handing him - Though Sherlock would get the credit once John most likely blogged about the case, it still meant that he could archive two major piles of paper from his desk.

"Yes, poor Sutton was getting cold feet after the theft turned into murder. He had his apartment under the name of Blessington, as his own name is well-known among fellow criminals and on multiple wanted lists around the country. I myself have been well aware of the man but didn't recognize him in his body's condition until the connection to the burglary dawned on me. He was probably waiting for his previous friends to leave the country as planned, but Mr. Duncan was more than capable of tracking him down. I know you noticed the quite elaborate security system in the apartment, but with a man as skilled as John Clay among your friends, keeping your door locked is infeasible. His companions came by his apartment to test his loyalties and Sutton clearly did not pass. They threatened the noose around his neck and then Muscle most likely pulled the string and executed punishment on poor Sutton. You will find that the cigarette buds from the plant fit the brand smoked by Duncan Ross, the feathers will fit with John Clay's down jacket and the oil should be traceable to Muscles' clothing."

"Brilliant," Lestrade and John exclaimed in unison, making them look awkwardly at each other, only making Sherlock's smirk wider.

Sherlock went on to explain how they had located the ship and the cargo earlier that same day and about the nature of the cargo underneath their feet. He elegantly left out how they had been allowed into the Port area to begin with, though Lestrade send John a searching look when Sherlock related how the shipping personal had aided them in identifying the location of the ship and the cargo.

"Well, I believe that should be enough for you to lock away our friends for a significant amount of time. John, we are done here;" Sherlock started walking away from the baffled police officers.

Lestrade, being well accustomed to Sherlock manners, just laughed before turning to his subordinates and started barking orders. When John walked past him, they gave a quick handshake in the passing, before John caught up to Sherlock, who, once away from the Yard, had slowed his pace in order for John to catch up, so they could leave the case together, no longer rushed by the thrill of the case.

Once out of earshot, John asked: "One last thing, Sherlock. Why has no one reported the gold missing? I mean, it's gold!"

Sherlock send him a tight smile: "I believe the answer to that is home at Baker Street."


	11. Chapter 11

The slightly tense atmosphere in the cab told John who to expect in the living room, so he was not surprised to find Mycroft comfortably leaning back in Sherlock's chair.

"Sherlock, John," He greeted them.

"Mycroft," Sherlock answered curtly.

"Evening, Mycroft," John, as usual, answered more amiably.

Despite Mycroft's initial secrecy surrounding Eurus, the experience at Sherrinford had created a new level of understanding between the three men, and especially the two brothers were closer than before though very few were able to tell. There were no words of endearment - Unless 'brother' could count, which might be necessary with these two - but they spend more time together, usually over a game of chess, which could sound boring to most, but was deadly serious between the two prodigies.

"Come to thank me for retrieving your lost gold?" Sherlock smirked.

"I hardly think 'lost' defines something you know perfectly well where is," Mycroft drawled.

" _Your_ gold?" John gaped.

"Well, the gold reserve of England, or a small part of it at least," Mycroft might as well have been talking about finding a missing sock.

John spluttered for a moment; "Wh-Bu-Ho… You keep… A part of the British Gold Reserve… In a storage room in Greenwich?"

"Last place anyone would look for it," Mycroft smiled confidently.

"Unless you are Duncan Ross," Sherlock stabbed.

"Ah, yes… Mr. Ross is quite skilled in the art of manipulation-"

"Oh, competition for your throne?"

"- _As you already know_ …" Mycroft emphasised his words to drown out Sherlock's provocative interruption, "…From his encounter with Mr. Wilson. He succeeded in acquiring the information from a lonely bank clerk of the Bank of England. No need to say she has received her letter of resignation."

"Huh…" John was stunned for a moment, before returning to old habits, "Tea?"

"Please," Mycroft smiled sweetly.

Sherlock settled in John's chair and collected his hands in front of him, studying his brother.

After some time, Mycroft smiled knowingly; "Whatever remark you are preparing regarding my current body mass, please don't bother. You know your statement would be false and just use up unnecessary oxygen."

Sherlock couldn't help a small smile to his lips; "Oh no, that's getting a bit old, don't you think? I was more concerned by the greying of your hair."

Sherlock grinned satisfied when the haughty demeanour left his brother's body, even if just for a second. Though Mycroft did not have a problem with his age or the inevitable fact that aging was, most basically, a part of life, he was still vain of his appearances. He quickly recovered and casually answered; "We all age, dear brother."

"Some more elegantly than others," Sherlock quickly replied.

John chose this moment to bring in the tea and an ice pack for his swollen chin, symbolising the end of this battle, and Sherlock taking the win. It was the ongoing war of wits between brothers, though the level of this particular game fluctuated between Sophisticated Chess and Go Fish.

"There is something, though, that I don't understand," John pulled a chair over by Sherlock's seat, having placed both their cups on the small table next to his usual chair before placing the ice pack on his face and turning to Mycroft, "Why didn't they leave with the gold sooner? It's been almost a month since the robbery."

Mycroft looked quickly at Sherlock before looking away. John quickly darted his eyes next to him, only just seeing the slightly embarrassed look on Sherlock's face. He looked back and forth between the two brothers again, before settling on Mycroft; "You. You stopped them."

"This tea is quite lovely. New brand?" Mycroft avoided the questioning quite poorly.

John turned to Sherlock, who didn't remove his eyes from Mycroft, though answering John's question; "You didn't see the shipment papers and the interminable process that this otherwise simple shipment had been through before being allowed to leave the port tomorrow, being withhold from leaving the port in any way. Bureaucracy at its finest. Luckily no one was openly searching for the gold, thus keeping our thieves in the country. Though the unpleasant thought of leaving all that gold after their hard work probably also motivated them to stick around."

"That is how you knew that Mycroft would be waiting for us," John concluded, "But what about Duncan Ross?"

"No need to worry about him," Mycroft smiled knowingly.

"Aha…" John knew not to elaborate on that matter, so instead he asked; "But if you knew all along where the gold was, then why not just get the authorities to go pick it up?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, but Mycroft ignored them both though his smile withered again.

The truth dawned on John and the ice package slipped from his chin; "You wanted Sherlock to solve the case? You left it out there for him, to entertain him?"

Mycroft shrugged in his chair, seeming to give into the inquiries; "Well, John… We both know that my brother is safer for society when occupied."

Translation: I worry that he will get bored and do something stupid.

Sherlock huffed at the sentiment, quickly changing Mycroft's attitude; "I am just surprised it took him this long to solve it."

"Hah! You can hardly judge my performance, considering you started by the finish line. I believe it qualifies as cheating," Sherlock countered.

"Making use of one's resources is hardly cheating, Sherlock." Mycroft condescended.

"But not playing by the same rules, is," Sherlock said, sending his brother a snide look.

"And here I thought you appreciated a challenge…"

The following hour continued much the same, with Sherlock and Mycroft exchanging jabs and John intervening when a referee was needed. Mostly though, he just leaned back in his chair, rejoicing in the sight of two incredibly brilliant men behaving as ordinary siblings, happily listening to the brothers' banter filling the living room of Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story was inspired by the story lines of The Redheaded League (The manner of the robbery), The Norwood Builder (The framing of the engineer and how he enters 221B, on the run from the police), The Second Stain (The way they found the underfloor passage by the lack of blood on a floor tile) and The Resident Patient (The death of Percy Sutton).
> 
> The title is a re-writing of "The Redheaded League"; Redheaded changed to 'Raid', as in 'Robbery'. Not completely happy with that, but every working title before that was much worse.
> 
> The introduction of Thomas was mainly to get Rosie out of the way (Though the image of Sherlock picking a tenant for John was also quite funny in my head). I rarely like children in television shows, unless they are non-vital to the plot, so that was the strategy I went with. It is also my greatest concern if we ever get a season 5, how much parenthood will influence the show, and worst of all, if the criminals start using Rosie against our Baker Street Boys. We love it when our guys are emotionally invested, but it would just be SO OBVIOUS :)
> 
> Thank you for reading and have a great day!


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